


Cooking Class

by vindali



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcoholic Tony Stark, Birthday, Cooking, Fluff and Angst, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Irondad, Ironspider - Freeform, M/M, Parker Luck, Peter Parker Can't Cook, References to Drugs, Starker, Tony Stark Can't Cook, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23347879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vindali/pseuds/vindali
Summary: (Ficlet) Tony and Peter both don't know how to cook for perfectly heartbreaking reasons, so Tony takes Peter to a cooking class on his 21st birthday.This is for my friend who likes nice fluffy fics. :-)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 70





	Cooking Class

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alfirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alfirin/gifts).



“Where are we going, Mr. Stark? Secret mission? Suit training? To the lab?”

Peter practically bounces in the backseat with excitement, Happy drives the car, and Tony sits in the back with Peter, stiffening a little.

“Ease up, kid. I know it’s your birthday and all.”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark.” Peter takes a deep breath, looking out the window.

Peter’s used to a three-piece suit, but today, Mr. Stark is wearing a soft Led Zeppelin T-shirt with the ‘69 album cover on it, acid-washed black jeans and Jordans; a gold Rolex studded with rubies, and gold-rimmed shades. The sunlight, cars and buildings reflect in them, and sometimes Peter can catch a glimpse of his dark eyelashes as he watches the city pass by. Tony’s lips curl slightly, his beautiful laugh lines scrunching his perfectly-trimmed beard.

“I’m kidding, go crazy.” He says, trying to sound deadpan, but there’s humor in his voice. “Your twenty-first only comes once. God, you’re so young.” Tony rubs his eyes under his glasses. Peter laughs, his eyes lighting up. He’s wearing tight blue jeans and a flannel button-up. “This is your present,” Tony explains. “But it’s more practical than fun. And long. Don’t get too excited about it. I promise we’ll do something more fun afterwards.”

Peter nods, his smile starting to fade. He licks his lips, wondering where this car is headed.

They enter a building and head to the third floor. Inside, the two step into a brightly-lit kitchen, ivory counters and silver stovetops gleaming under high beams of fluorescent lighting. An older woman is pulling cutting boards from the cabinets. She straightens when they enter and hobbles over. Her skin is a shade darker than Tony’s, her thick, black-and-silver hair is pulled back tightly in a bun, and her eyes dart between them, intense as they finally focus on Peter. Tony tucks his shades into the collar of his shirt.

“Peter, this is my aunt Anita Carbonell, on my mother’s side. We call her Ani or Aunt Ani.” Tony clears his throat. Anita and Tony share a look, but there are no hugs or greetings.

“Mrs. Carbonell, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Peter Parker.” Peter’s eyes widen as he offers out his hand. She looks at Tony for a moment.

“Ani.” She corrects him, shaking his hand. Her thick arm tenses, and Peter blinks. She’s strong-- if he didn’t have superpowers, she would be stronger than him.

“Ani.” Peter corrects himself quietly.

“Tony.” Ani looks at him sternly, taking him by the arm. She says a few things that Peter can’t understand, and judging by the scrunched look on Tony’s face, he can’t either.

“ _ Non capisco _ .” Tony says over and over.

“ _ C'è qualcuno che parla italiano? _ ” She gasps exasperatedly.

“I get it, I’m a disgrace to my heritage. I know, I don’t speak Italian, it’s awful.” Tony dismisses her.

“Tony, it took you so long to see me.” She says sadly.

“I know, I’m sorry, Auntie.” He grumbles.

“I see you on TV more than I see you in the flesh.”

“Mm.” Tony hides a smile, looking at Peter. Peter looks confused.

“And now, you visit me and bring me a-- a great nephew?”

“No,” Tony gasps, turning red. Peter giggles nervously, swallowing. “No, this isn’t my son. Just a. Well, maybe I’m a mentor of sorts.”

Ani shakes her head, smiling.   
“Tony. Maria used to tell me all about you. Talk about you everyday on the phone. You couldn’t cook an egg without burning it.” Ani teases, pinching Tony’s cheek. Tony huffs. “And Peter,Tony says you turned 21, and you’re the same?”

“I- it’s true.” Peter frowns. 

“21 and 52, and you can’t cook for shit.” Ani shakes her head. She picks up a santoku knife, sharpening it. “Well, then. I’ll try to teach you what I know. Tony should have learned this far before your age, Peter.”

“Wait, is that what this is? You’re teaching us how to cook?” Peter asks nervously, looking to Tony for help. Tony nods.

“Ani is a chef of a successful restaurant, and she teaches sometimes at the community college… that’s why we’re here in her class. She’s so graciously offered to help in her spare time.” Tony explains, although, by the wink, Peter can tell she doesn’t work for free. Ani smiles slightly.

“Mr. Stark--” Peter begins.

“This is for the best, Peter. You’re going to need to know how.” Tony starts. “And if it makes you feel better, I know as much as you.”

Peter stares down at the counter, mortified. He nods quietly.

Some birthday present this is.

“Peter.” Tony sidles up next to him, rubbing his back gently. Peter can sense the warmth of Tony’s body, the faint smell of his cologne. Peter nods slowly.

“What’s wrong with him?” Ani asks.

“Just a little pre-show jitters.” Tony pats him on the back. Peter breathes deeply and looks up.

“Ok, then. Aprons on.” Ani tosses them both a white apron. Tony and Peter tie them on and wash up.

First, the noodles. Peter and Tony both expect to see a box of dry noodles, but Ani takes no shortcuts. She shows them how to mix the flour, egg olive oil and salt into dough, and shape it with the pasta maker.

“You can’t pick something easier, like how to cook a pop tart? We’re beginners.” Tony grumbles after botching most of his noodles.

“It’s spaghetti, Tony.” Ani laughs, stretching her noodles perfectly.

Peter’s noodles turn out ok. He has more fun with the flour, spanking Tony and leaving a dusty white hand-print on his ass. Tony reminds him that they’re $800 jeans he’s wearing, which only draws another light laugh from Peter--  _ as if it even makes a dent in your budget, Mr. Stark _ .

Several minutes later, Ani sets down a bowl of onions and shows them how to peel and cut onions, teaching them both standard knife safety as she goes. Tony and Peter both complain about their watering eyes, and Tony stops to rub his, which turns into a whole ordeal. Peter is stopped more than one time for cutting towards his body.

Next, the garlic. Pull the cloves from the head, and press down on the clove with the flat of the knife for easy peeling.  _ It doesn’t work _ , Tony complains, smashing his cloves. Tony yanks at Peter’s apron, pulling the back open. Peter can’t stop giggling. Ani barks, and they move on. Peter starts to understand what  _ basta  _ means. 

Basil next. A quick chop later, and the three throw it all into saucepans with butter and salt to simmer.

“What are you studying, Peter?” Ani asks.

“Biophysics.” Peter answers.

“You’re a scientist like Tony?”

“I can’t even be compared to Mr. Stark, ma’am.” Peter squeaks, raking his ingredients around the pan.

“Oh, don’t flatter me, kid.” Tony sings, stirring his.

“Well, you’re both scientists. Cooking is a science. It’s chemistry.” Ani explains.

“That’s why Dr. Banner makes a mean souffle.” Tony jokes. Peter laughs. “We chose different branches, Auntie, not all science is the same.”

“The simmering?” Ani continues. “Chemical reaction. Flour and egg combine to make dough. Chemical reaction. The most common mistake I see is when people don’t understand chemistry. So, right now, I ask you to cook the onion, garlic and herbs in fat. Why?”

Peter and Tony just giggle helplessly into the silence. Ani shushes them and continues.

“The flavor comes first in cooking. Too many times, I see people cook, then add the flavor and the herbs at the end… then they’re surprised it doesn’t taste like anything... they don’t give the flavor time to cook into the food. You must establish the flavor first!  _ Velocemente! _ ”

They add in smashed tomatoes and let them simmer in the flavor. Ani shows them how to cook the noodles in the meantime.

At the end, they all sit down with their dishes and extra plates. Ani’s is  _ perfetto _ . Tony’s noodles look horrible, and Peter’s dish is fine, though the onions could have been diced finer. Ani pours them all a glass of red wine.

“To Peter’s twenty-first.” Tony says, raising his glass. Ani, Tony and Peter clink glasses.

They all try each other’s dishes and Ani discusses them all. Too much flour in Peter’s noodles. Too many eggs in Tony’s, and next time don’t let the noodles get stuck together. Both sauces could have simmered a few minutes more. 

“Always something to improve, Auntie?” Tony growls, getting a little tense. It’s clear to Peter now that Tony responds the same way he does to stress-- make jokes.

“Tony, you ask me to teach you, I teach you.” Ani says, annoyed. “I see potential, but there is much more work to be done.”

“Yes, but I thought you would teach us… I don’t know, something easier.” Tony groans.

“This is easy, Tony!” Ani shrugs in exasperation. “My grandmother could make this with her eyes closed. I’m not going to spoil you, coddle you like my sister.”

Peter swallows his food as a heavy silence falls over the table.

“Do you think that’s what happened?” Tony bristles at the mention of his mother. He drains his glass of wine. Ani’s face wrinkles in despair, and she leans back. “Have you ever stopped to think that maybe my father pushed me so hard that-- that all Mom did was allow me a moment to  _ rest _ ? And that’s coddling?”

“I know your father-- he had a problem with  _ that _ , too.” Ani nods to the wine. Tony sets the glass down, his temple throbbing.

“Don’t I know it, honey.” He replies. His knuckles turn white against the table. Ani just tuts and rolls her eyes.

“I know that look from your mother. When she got mad, she would put the defense walls up…  _ basta _ . Tony.” She snaps her fingers. “This is a great time to teach this young man about the dangers of drinking. I know your stories, too. Maria used to cry over you in worry.”

Tony shakes his head, his face turning redder.   
“If we could stop talking about Mom and Dad, that would be great. We’re supposed to be fucking celebrating.”   
“Mr. Stark?” Peter swallows, touching Tony’s shoulder gently. Tony tenses up, wanting to shrug Peter off, but hesitantly lets Peter touch him. “Want to take a walk?” Peter asks. Tony closes his eyes and nods.

The two walk out of the building, across the campus lawn and sit on a bench in silence. Tony slips his glasses back on and stares over the green expanse. It’s late August, and school’s just started. Students are rushing over to the admissions office to get ID’s and fix snags before it’s too late. Peter watches the bustle and relaxes. It’s strange to be on a different campus and not have to worry about what’s going on.

Tony’s still in a knot of darkness, hunched over, arms crossed.

“Can I?” Peter touches Tony’s shoulder again, rubbing it gently. He’s still not sure what him and Tony are, and the more time he spends with him, the more the lines get blurred. He still has celebrity-like reverence for him, and at the same time, Peter sees Mr. Stark as a father, a mentor, and a friend-- the levels of Mr. Stark’s superiority fluctuates-- and at this moment, for the first time, Peter feels protective of him.   
“I’m sorry, Peter. I fucked up your birthday. We should have just gone to a bar.” Tony sighs.

“No.” Peter shakes his head. “You wanted to give me something special, something to educate me. You want me to be better… I like that about you. This was so personal and nice.” Peter’s voice gets softer. “It’s nice… having someone like that after-- well, now that Ben’s gone.”

Tony’s eyes get softer behind the maroon tint of his lenses.

“Mom and Dad both came from affluence, they had no need to cook.” Tony says after a time, looking ahead into the distance. “But that didn’t stop Mom-- she didn’t cook everyday, we had chefs, but sometimes she would cook or bake something really good. I’m sure she learned from Auntie.” Tony uncrosses his arms. “Mom wasn’t even warm. She was almost as cold as Dad, except she would make sure I slept and ate. Dad would love to hang it over my head, how spoiled I was. That I should be so grateful to him for everything I have. To work as hard as I can to protect and maintain it. He wanted me to make something of myself, as if I didn’t work hard every day of my life. As if I didn’t get into an Ivy League school at fucking fifteen.” Tony rubs his eyes under his shades. They’re too dark to tell, but Peter thinks he’s crying-- except Tony’s voice doesn’t falter, his hands don’t shake-- if he was, he’s mastered the art of hiding it. He just sniffs and looks away, his face ticking slightly before he turns back to Peter. “You don’t get through MIT Summa Cum Laude without Adderall, you just don’t. So, it started with that. And all my friends were drinking, smoking joints-- eventually I was mixing cocaine with Adderall and whiskey and blacking out at shows and on the lawn. When I graduated, all I could think was,  _ finally _ . I went out to rock shows, then, and did as much as I wanted-- almost died a few times. But it felt so good I didn’t care. I’ve always been a junkie, but now, it’s for adrenaline, and I still have an alcohol problem that I can’t seem to get a hold on.” Tony’s hands tremble a little, and he smooths them flat on his jeans. “I was high the day my parents died. I made it to the emergency room, and they were gone. I couldn’t get there in time. I was too fucked up. I didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t feel anything.” His face is white. Peter’s hand still rubs his back. “It’s hard to see my family after that. It’s not my fault, but you always tell yourself it is.”

“I think I know how you feel, Mr. Stark-- except for the drugs.” Peter says quietly.

“I bet you get self-conscious after two glasses of chocolate milk.” Tony teases, turning to him for the first time. His cheeks are glistening. Peter laughs gently.

“Yeah.” Peter admits painfully-- that did happen once. “But I know how it feels to lose both your parents in one night-- no one knows how it feels. It’s like getting your guts ripped out.”

Tony nods and rubs at his eyes again, cursing.

“I can still smell the fucking onions on my hands.” Tony laughs. Peter laughs, too.

“I make jokes when I’m nervous.” Peter says.

“Me, too.” Tony sighs, confirming Peter’s previous thought. So, more or less, same trauma, same coping mechanism. 

“Uncle Ben would cook everyday. His food was delicious. He could grill ribs and pork chops, and he made meatloaf and amazing green beans. His chicken and dumplings were to die for. He even made a pretty good curry.” Peter sighs. “May can’t cook. She tries, but she can’t… I don’t know what it is. I thought I’d developed that trait. I burn everything, even microwave burritos. Today… my spaghetti wasn’t great, but I would eat it alone… that’s an improvement.” Peter rests his head on Tony’s shoulder. “I’m glad I have you, Mr. Stark.”

“I’m a mess of a mentor.” Tony sniffs again, wrapping his arm around Peter. Peter chews at his lip.

“Why did you stop doing drugs?” He finally asks.

“I didn’t.” Tony replies. “Their death made it worse. Obie put me in rehab. Then Rhodey. I had to take care of Stark Industries, put on a good face, so I just did the best I could. I failed a lot. My last detox was in a cave in Afghanistan. This almost killed me.” Tony taps the metal disc under his shirt. “Finally, I decided I needed to start drinking kale smoothies and get my shit together. That makes me about ten years clean.”

“Nice.” Peter looks down at Tony’s chest, at the faint glow of the arc reactor.

“Flash-forward to thirty-something years of engineering weapons and self-medicating later…” Tony smiles. “The only thing I know how to make is an old-fashioned, and I have the money that I would never need to learn how to cook.”

“Then why start?” Peter asks.

“For my mother. For you.” Tony answers, squeezing Peter. “You’ll be a bachelor, and I want you to take care of yourself. Don’t do anything I would do.” He teases. “But we’re still going to a bar tonight.”

“A-are you drinking?” Peter asks nervously.

“Of course, why did you think I had Happy drive us?” Tony clears his throat. “Since your old man is gone, you’ll need someone to show you the difference between a stout and a lager before you embarrass yourself.”

“Maybe.” Peter straightens, thinking. “Maybe you can drive, and Happy can show me.”

Tony blinks, his mouth hanging open.

“Excuse me? Did you say  _ I _ can drive? Do you realize who you’re talking to, underoos?” Tony snaps, and Peter giggles.

“If it’s a problem for you, I don’t want you to feel pressured.” Peter explains. “Maybe we can like, go paintballing.”

Tony hides a smile.

“Kid, it’s your 21st.”

“So?” Peter shrugs. “I have my whole life to drink. I could go out tomorrow. I want to spend the night with you, and I don’t care what we’re doing.”

Tony smiles and nods.

“Let’s say goodbye to Aunt Ani first. What did you think of her?”

“She’s scary.” Peter admits, garnering a hearty laugh from Tony. “And an amazing cook.”

“Would you want to do this with me again sometime?” Tony asks. His eyes glisten behind his lenses, and his tongue is stuck licking his bottom lip, waiting in anticipation. Peter nods, and he breaks into a smile.


End file.
